


An Epilogue

by carrionkid



Category: Journey into Mystery, Loki: Agent of Asgard, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 22:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13109502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid
Summary: uhhhh i just finished rereading journey into mystery and the final issue always just guts me. it's 2 am and i'm crying and i wrote this sort of fix it fic about god of stories loki finding kid loki and trying to set things to right. this is only loosely edited so i apologize, as previously stated it's 2 am and i'm dying--It takes Loki a week to find him. He can only half remember the place, like a fever dream vanished upon waking accompanied only by a feeling that maybe it’s better you don’t remember. He’s tucked away between the yellowed pages of a long-shelved book, a pressed flower never retrieved.





	An Epilogue

It takes Loki a week to find him. He can only half remember the place, like a fever dream vanished upon waking accompanied only by a feeling that maybe it’s better you don’t remember. He’s tucked away between the yellowed pages of a long-shelved book, a pressed flower never retrieved.

But Loki is Loki is Loki, hunger slaked on story, words woven carefully by a silver-tongue into something so fine one can’t help but marvel at it. So he goes looking, picking through metaphors and plucking similes from pages of the stories of old. He’s been there before, this he knows, but the memory slips from his grasp like wisps of smoke, leaving him only with the memory of burning evermore.

He falls into the place while pouring through the pages of an old tome. It could be an accident, or coincidence, or something like fate, but Loki believes in everything and nothing all at once. There is order in disorder and he can see the strings pulling each pawn into place bit by bit. He can see the wonderful, wild curve of the endless cycle unto entropy, an open maw sated only with complete chaos. Perhaps that great, hungry mouth was him, once, long ago but he’s rewritten his ending.

 _Still_ , a phantom voice whispers, _the world is so beautiful when it’s burning._

He pushes it away, getting to his feet from where he’s fallen. What more fitting of a tomb for one unmade than an unplace? It’s cruel but poetic enough that he can appreciate it, an all too familiar trademark of his previous self.

The boy is crying. That was expected. Loki remembers being him and seeing him, simultaneously overlaid and watching through eyes that aren’t his own, wearing skin like a mask with the taste of carrion on his tongue.

He shivers, shaking the thought from his mind. Before the search began, he had planned what he would say, all true, all without excuses. But that pretense slips away when he realizes how small the boy is. In the flashes of memories he gets in his dreams, he never remembered being this small.

Yes, the world seemed big and scary but the world always seems big and scary when you’re new to being in a body. But smallness and youngness aren’t the same, yes, the young can be small and the small can be young but he is something young carrying a forgotten legacy like shackles, drowning under the weight on his thin shoulders.

So, Loki stands, watching, word-smith now wordless, weaver of stories with nothing to write. The boy looks up, catching sight of him.

“W-why are you here?” His face is bloody but his teeth gleam white amongst the red, like bone upon a funeral pyre, “Have you returned to mock me?”

“No, I--” Loki takes a step towards the boy, he’s not yet old enough to know about the value of contingency plans.

“I hate you,” the boy’s voice cracks, “I _hate_ you.”

 _It’s okay, I hate me too,_ Loki thinks, but it’s not the time for jokes so he bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood in the hopes of drowning out that phantom feeling of rot coating the inside of his mouth. Instead, he takes another step closer, the boy’s eyes look like that of a scared animal, cornered, so Loki acts accordingly.

“I hate you,” the boy repeats it again, voice weaker as he leans forward, retching.

He spits blackened flesh into the ground, choking as he starts to cry again. Loki crouches down next to him, putting a hand on the boy’s back slowly, seeing if he’ll run.

“We are many things, but we are not carrion-eaters,” he whispers.

“We are not the same,” he spits, the words bloody.

“No, we’re not... Let me help you--”

“Don’t touch me!”

The boy shrugs Loki’s hand from his back, standing up and staggering backwards into the pedestal behind him. Loki stands, giving him space in an attempt to not fuck things up any further.

“You tricked me,” the boy says, charging forwards to elbow Loki in the stomach.

The boy is young and he is weak, so the blow doesn’t hurt except in its meaning. Loki stays still, arms at his sides as the boy strikes him again.

“You _used_ me!”

He kicks his shin.

“I _listened_ toyou! I knew I shouldn't but I did because I needed _help_ and there wasn't anyone else.”

His blows are almost half-hearted now.

“I tried to help everyone but I only ended up making it worse,” the boy slumps forward, head resting against Loki’s stomach, sobs wracking his body, “I tried, I really really tried.”

Loki rubs small circles on the boy’s back, “I know, I know, it’s okay now. It’s over now. You’re safe now.”

The boy looks up, pushing him away as hard as he can, “ _I’m dead now!_ Because of _you!”_

Loki opens his mouth to protest.

“It wasn’t good enough that you stole my body? You have to come back and taunt me with hope?”

Loki sits down on the ground, legs crossed, “I’m not Ikol. Ikol’s dead. But I’m not you either. I’m just me.”

“Stop lying to me,” the boy crosses his arms, turning away from Loki.

“Wait a second,” Loki says, pulling his phone from his pocket and dialing a number, “Verity, hello, can you do me a favor?”

“Okay, okay, I’m putting you on speaker now.”

“Why are you putting me on speaker?” Her voice crackles to life through the speakers of the cell-phone.

“Verity, can you say what your power is?”

“I can tell whenever someone’s lying. Why did you need me to say that, Loki?”

“I’m not Ikol.”

“I know that,” Verity sighs.

“Shush, wait ‘til I’m done,” Loki stage-whispers before continuing, “I’m not Ikol. Ikol’s dead. But I’m not you either. Verity, was that a lie?”

“No,” she says, “It was all true, but Loki, what is this all about?”

“I’ll explain when I get home, bye!”

The boy turns back, arms still crossed, “How do I know she wasn’t lying?”

“Because she’s my best and only friend.”

The boy worries his lip with his teeth before blurting out, “Is Leah okay?”

“She hates me, but she’s okay.”

“No,” the boy says, taking a seat next to Loki, “She hates me. I made her go away. I didn’t want to hurt her.”

“We never hurt her. You can rest easy knowing that.”

“When do I really die?” The boy tries to wipe the tears from his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt, succeeding in only smearing the blood on his face.

“How long have you been here?” Loki asks, it’s partly an evasion and partly a matter of curiosity.

“I don’t know,” the boy frowns, “A couple hours. Does it matter?”

Loki frowns, tears pricking at his eyes, “You’ve been here for three years.”

“I have?”

“You didn’t die, you just stopped existing. And before you ask, there _is_ a difference. Ikol wasn’t counting on anyone finding you, but I did, so now I can help you.”

“And why should I trust you?” The boy looks at him with a cold gaze, one that looks calculating and ancient.

“Because I changed, just like you. And,” Loki grins, “I’m the god of stories now so rewriting things is basically my job. I can give you a happy ending.”

“Like the one Ikol promised?”

Loki shuts his eyes, wandering back to dreams of a forest and soft light and leaves in a perpetual fiery smear of orange and red, the feeling of reaching out for a hand he can never touch. Those were always the kind dreams, preferred over dreams of burning in a blaze eternal.

“Yes.”

The boy looks at him, eyes wide and hopeful, all trace of that ancient gaze gone.

“She won’t be your Leah.”

“Just a pretty lie,” the boy finishes, “But that’s okay. You can explain to Leah about everything. You’re _real,_ like she is.”

“What is a lie but a story told?” Loki asks, and the boy leans towards him, wrapping his arms around Loki’s waist.

He hugs the boy back, cradling his head as he whispers, “You did it, you were the first one to do it. It was a tremendous burden for a child to bear, but you bore it well and now you can rest.”

He can hear the boy crying again, his body shaking, and again Loki’s struck with how small he is.

“I’m sorry,” the boy mumbles into his shirt, “ _Loki cries but briefly._ ”

“No,” Loki ruffles the boy’s hair, “Loki cries as much as is needed.”


End file.
